Trouble on the Thames (12 page)

“Describe his appearance to me. It is possible that I may know him.”

“He was a biggish guy, over six foot, I'd say. Might have been out abroad from the way he was sunburned. Looked a bit like Gary Cooper and had a small scar on the corner of his forehead. I'd put his age at about twenty-six or twenty-seven.”

“I do not fancy I have the pleasure of his acquaintance. You searched him thoroughly, of course? Was there nothing in his pockets which would help our people to identify him?”

“Only a cigarette case with the initials O.B. on it. If you ask me, I'd say he was the fellow Sutton was looking out for, and that he'd called round to make himself mighty unpleasant.”

“Is that a mere guess, or have you any definite reason for thinking so?”

“Wait till you've heard the rest and you'll be able to judge for yourself.” Craig paused. “Seemed like the best notion was for me and Kellerman to clear off and leave our pal to do the explaining. So I grabbed up the stuff I'd collected and we slid out quick. As I told you, there's a whole lot of trees at the back, and we'd just got in amongst 'em when we suddenly saw the lights of a car coming round the corner. Put the wind up both of us for a moment. It stopped dead opposite the bungalow, and the next moment out hopped a skirt. Just the sort of smart-looking kid Sutton used to trail around with. Must have got the surprise of her life when she shoved open the door and walked in.”

Von Manstein's eyes narrowed. “And what happened?”

“We heard her let off a squeal, and then after a bit—six or seven minutes, I reckon—out she comes again with that big stiff holding on to her arm. Guess his skull must be made of cast iron. She helps him into the car, nips in herself, and before you could say Jack Robinson they were chasing away back up the lane. She's got guts, that kid, whoever she is—”

“A very interesting development.” Von Manstein stroked his chin, meditating. “What do you make of it yourself?”

“I'd say that Sutton had been doing the dirty on her, and that this guy had come down to beat him up. Like as not she tumbled to what was going on and thought she'd better butt in and stop the rough stuff.”

“That is possible. Let us hope you are right.”

Craig glanced at his companion a trifle uncertainly. “You don't figure that he could have been one of Greystoke's bunch?”

“It is a point that we must keep in mind. I certainly cannot place him by your description, but there is always a chance that the worthy Captain may have been enlarging his staff. You are positive you left no finger-prints?”

“Is it likely? Never took off our gloves the whole time.”

“Well, we must trust that your private vendetta theory will turn out to be correct. In any case, Mr. Sutton has been successfully eliminated, and that is the matter with which we are chiefly concerned. You have brought the papers with you?”

Diving into his side pocket, Craig produced a square packet tied up with string which he handed over to his companion. “That's all I could find. There's a sort of diary there that might be helpful. Tells what he was up to and puts down one or two names and addresses. They may mean something to your crowd.”

“In a case like this the more information we can get the better.” Von Manstein laid the packet on the table beside him. “Permit me to congratulate you again. You have acted with enterprise and judgment, and you may rest assured that the Reich will not be unmindful of the fact. I will make it my business to see that your services are suitably recognised.”

Craig's heavy-lidded eyes brightened, and finishing his drink, he hoisted himself up off the ottoman.

“O.K., Count,” he drawled. “I guess that's good enough for me.”

***

“Mark!”

Olga Brandon started up abruptly, spilling the ash of her cigarette on to the carefully polished parquet floor. With a reassuring smile her visitor closed the door and came forward to where she was standing.

“Couldn't make it any sooner. Been having a talk with von Manstein.” He took her hands, and giving her a quick kiss, drew her down beside him on to the sofa. “You got my message from the Club?”

“Yes. Florrie told me as soon as I came in. I have been waiting for you ever since.” She drew in a long breath. “I have read what it says in the paper, Mark. What does it mean? Has it—has it anything to do with you?”

Craig patted her arm. “It's all right, honey. The whole job's finished, and you can take it from me there's no call to get rattled. That bastard Sutton just got what he was askin' for.”

The girl stared at him for a moment in silence.

“Did you kill him yourself?”

“Would it put the wind up you if I had?”

“You know me better than that. It's you I'm thinking about.” She laid her hand on his sleeve and gripped it fiercely. “Tell me, Mark—tell me the truth. I'd never give anything away, not even if I was tortured. I'm all for the Germans. I'd love to see them smash hell out of these stuck-up swine.”

“Yes, I reckon we think along the same lines.” He ran his stubby fingers caressingly over her bare throat and neck. “Well, why not. You get around quite a lot, and maybe you might have heard something useful. Anyhow, I guess there's no harm in putting you wise.”

Speaking in quick, broken sentences, he proceeded to explain why the removal of Sutton had become absolutely essential, and then, not without a certain boastful satisfaction, described the flattering confidence exhibited by von Manstein in entrusting him with the full responsibility for carrying out the necessary arrangements. In almost the same words that he had used half an hour earlier he went on to repeat his account of what had taken place at the bungalow, making no effort to excuse or conceal his own share in the deliberately planned murder. Kellerman's swift and efficient work with the knife, the hurried search for incriminating papers, the sudden scuffle outside, and the unexpected complications which had subsequently developed—the whole macabre story came tumbling out with complete and revolting frankness. All through, the girl sat motionless and silent, her dark eyes riveted upon his in a fixed, unwavering stare.

“Haven't figured out exactly what the two of 'em were up to,” he finished, “but I guess it was some private affair of their own and nothing to do with us. Anyhow, it'll keep the cops busy. There'll be finger-prints and tyre-marks for 'em to play around with, and while they're getting ahead on that line we can just sit back and take things comfortable. Might even spread ourselves a trifle so long as the Count stumps up handsomely. How would you fancy a week in Paris and a spot of shopping to furbish up the wardrobe?”

“It would be great. How much do you think he'll be good for?”

“A decent packet. The Boche pays well when you give him the real goods. What matters, though, isn't the dough we can collect right now: it's how things will be in another year's time. Wait till Hitler's in Buckingham Palace and these darned Britishers are crawling around on their bellies.”

“I'm not forgetting. All the same, there's no harm in drawing a bit on account.”

“Say, that reminds me.” Pulling out a leather wallet, Craig extracted a folded sheet of note-paper. It was covered on all four sides with straggling writing in an obviously feminine hand. “I found this in Sutton's pocket, and I didn't see any reason for handing it over to von Manstein. Struck me that the party who wrote it wouldn't exactly like to have it floating around loose. Might be willing to cough up in order to get it back. Only snag is that she hasn't put her address, and dames called Sheila are just about as common as dirt.”

With an eager movement Olga took possession of the letter, and before she had finished reading the first page a wicked smile was already playing round her lips. Leaning forward Craig watched her closely.

“By gosh, you've got something here, Mark.” Her voice had a ring of malicious triumph. “There's only one girl who could have written this, and that's Sheila Deane. I knew she was drifting around with Sutton up till a few months ago.”

“Who is she?”

“No one in particular. Just one of those dumb good-lookers that artists and photographers go potty about. There were two pictures of her in the Academy last year.”

“Has she got any brass?”

“Shouldn't think so. I believe her father was a country doctor, and the sister runs a furnishing shop or something of the sort down in Chelsea. I went there once with Lottie Gray.”

“Doesn't sound too hopeful.”

“I'm not so sure. There's a rumour that she's engaged to Julian Raymond, and if that's the case you can bet your life that she'd manage to find the needful. Wouldn't surprise me if Sutton was trying to put the black on her himself.”

Craig whistled softly. “Looks as if we'd struck oil. Think she could have been the one who butted in with the car?”

“Didn't sound like her from your description.”

“Well, there's money in it, that's a cert. Have to back pedal for a time, of course. Too damned dangerous to start anything at present.”

“There's no hurry. Let her get on with it and marry the fool. She'll be splashing in it then, and you can take it from me that she'll be just as ready to fork out.”

“You've hit it, honey.” Craig grinned appreciatively. “Not the sort of dope a dame would like passed on to her hubby.”

“You had better let me keep it. It will be safer here. If there was a raid on the Club and they happened to run across it—”

“Yeah—I guess you're right.” As he spoke Craig's eyes travelled across to the clock on the mantelpiece, and after a confirmatory glance at his own watch he hoisted himself to his feet. “Gee, I must be getting along. How about to-morrow? Like to lunch with me at the Milan and drink the health of the happy pair?”

“Seems only fair.” Olga refolded the letter, and with a contented yawn stretched out her arms. “After all,” she added venomously, “they'll have to pay the bill.”

Chapter VIII

Ding-dong. Ding-dong. Ding-dong
.

A metallic boom floated vaguely into his consciousness, and with a protesting grunt Owen rolled over on to his elbow and reluctantly opened his eyes. His first sensation was one of utter bewilderment. For a moment or two he lay staring round the unfamiliar room with its long array of shelves and cupboards, and then, flinging off the rug that covered the lower part of his body, he struggled up stiffly into a sitting position. Where the deuce was he, and why— His hand went up to his head and his exploring fingers encountered a bandage. The effect was what is sometimes described as “electrical.” It was just as though he had pressed a button and some obstructing curtain had been suddenly whisked aside.

“My holy aunt!” he muttered. “The angel's workshop, of course!” Like a queer unrolling film the events of the previous night began to crowd back into his mind. Curiously enough, they seemed to be taking place in reverse order. From the moment when Sally had spread the rug over him and told him to go to sleep his memory travelled in swift stages through what seemed to be a positive nightmare of strange and almost incredible experiences. Only when he arrived at the point when he was sitting dazed and half-conscious in the darkness of the bungalow did the stream of recollections suddenly peter out. Cudgel his brains as he might, all his further efforts were useless. Beyond that, everything was still a complete and maddening blank.

Getting off the couch a trifle unsteadily, he picked up his watch, which was lying on the table. The hands were pointing to three o'clock. The next instant he realised that he had omitted to wind it, and laying it down again with an impatient frown, he crossed over towards the small window opposite and peered out between the protecting iron bars.

He found himself gazing into a miniature back yard, the distinguishing feature of which was a large, rather dilapidated dustbin. The place was enclosed by a high, dirty-looking brick wall, with a flight of steps leading up to a door in the centre. Above this barrier rose an irregular line of chimney-pots, their black shapes standing out fantastically against a narrow strip of leaden-coloured sky.

As to what time of day it was, or how long he had been unconscious, there was nothing to afford the remotest indication. It was true that he was distinctly hungry, but since his last meal must be verging upon ancient history, such a state of affairs was only to be expected. The one fact about which there could be no question was that the rest and sleep had done him a world of good. Apart from a slight headache he felt in astonishingly good shape.

A gilt-framed mirror hanging on the wall suddenly caught his eye. With a certain hopeful excitement he walked towards it, but at the first glimpse of his own reflection the same chill feeling of bewilderment swept over him again with renewed force. This sunburned unshaven face, crowned by a slightly dishevelled bandage, might, for all it suggested, have been the property of a complete stranger. It was the uncanniest sensation he had yet experienced.

Before its full effect had had time to wear off there was a gentle tap on the door. He jerked round sharply and there, in the dim light that filtered in through the yard window, stood the blue-eyed, smiling figure of Sally Deane.

“Oh, you
are
awake at last and actually walking about!” She surveyed him with an air of professional gratification. “How's the head, and how are you feeling generally?”

“Ever so much better.” He grinned cheerfully as though in support of his assertion. “You know, you ought to set up as a doctor. I'd make a grand advertisement for you.”

“I must have a look and see whether you're telling the truth.” Switching on the light, she advanced towards the couch, and having seated himself in the required position, Owen remained passively silent while she removed the bandage. The touch of her fingers and the sound of her soft breathing as she bent over him sent a queer thrill of pleasure trickling down his spine.

“Not too bad,” she announced with a satisfied nod. “It hasn't bled any more, and the swelling seems to have gone down quite a lot. On the whole, I think we've made a pretty good job of it.”

“I'm glad you approve.” He looked up and let his eyes rest on the small, heart-shaped face with its adorably curved lips and firm, resolute little chin. “I'm terribly grateful for all you've done for me,” he added. “I don't believe I thanked you half enough last night.”

“Well, you informed me that I was your guardian angel. What more could you say than that?”

“Heaps.” With a gingerly movement he explored the lump on the back of his head. “What time is it?” he demanded. “My watch has stopped and I haven't the shadowiest notion.”

“Just on seven in the evening.”

“Gosh—have I been out as long as that?”

She nodded. “I've been down once or twice to see how you were getting on, but each time you were still fast asleep. Your pulse seemed to be quite steady and regular, so I thought I'd better not disturb you. I was just a bit worried, of course, but I couldn't very well send for a doctor. He would have started asking questions, and—and that might have got you into trouble. All I could do was to wait until you woke up and see how you felt then!”

“I feel as right as rain except for my wretched memory. I know exactly what happened after you walked in, but the devil of it is that that's where everything seems to start off. As to who I am or how I got there, or whether I really stuck a knife into that blackmailing twirp—”

“Don't worry: it will all come back before very long.” She patted him encouragingly. “What about some food? I expect you're quite hungry?”

“I wouldn't say no to a large chunk of bread and cheese.”

“Oh, we can do better than that. I was just going to cook something for Ruth and myself, and it will be perfectly easy to make it enough for three. Would you prefer to have it down here, or do you feel well enough to come up and join us? We—we shall be very pleased if you would.”

“It's terribly decent of you to ask me. Of course I'd much rather make a party of it: that's to say, if you don't object to my revolting appearance. I've been having a squint at myself in the glass, and—”

“You think you could do with a shave?” She put her head on one side and contemplated him gravely. “Yes, that occurred to me when I came in this morning, so I slipped out and bought you a brush and a safety razor. I've put them on the shelf in the lavatory, and you'll find a piece of soap and a towel there as well.”

“But this is altogether too much. You leave me simply speechless with gratitude.”

“That's all right. Both Ruth and I like strong, silent men.” She laughed mischievously. “I'll bring you down some hot water, and then you can toddle along and make yourself beautiful. You needn't hurry over it, because it will take at least twenty minutes to get dinner ready. By the way, do you remember whether you like mushrooms?”

“Mushrooms?” Owen paused and wrinkled his forehead. “I think I must,” he said slowly. “Anyhow, I can feel my mouth watering.”

***

Ruth deposited the syphon and the bottle of whisky in the centre of the table, and then stood back to survey the effect. At the same instant Sally appeared in the doorway. She was carrying a tray containing three portions of iced grapefruit, the faint perfume of which drifted pleasantly across the small sitting-room.

“Here we are,” she announced. “All ready to start off. Do you mind trotting down and fetching Oliver?”

“Why don't you go yourself?” objected Ruth. “He's your property, not mine.”

“But I want you to get to know him. You'll have a much better chance if you talk to him alone.”

“I'm not keen on taking chances with people who've probably committed a murder.” Ruth's lips twitched. “However, as you've done the cooking, darling, I suppose I must humour you. If you happen to hear a strangled scream, fling open the window and yell for the police.”

Without further protest she stepped out on to the small landing, and making her way downstairs and across the dimly lighted shop, pulled up at the head of the short flight that connected it with the basement.

“Hullo,” she called out in her deep, rather husky voice. “Dinner's ready if you've finished shaving. I've come along to show you the way.”

“That's very nice of you.” Looking surprisingly clean and respectable, Owen emerged from his subterranean retreat and mounted the steps. His appearance was so improved that Ruth raised her eyebrows. “What have you been doing to yourself?” she exclaimed. “Why, I hardly recognised you.”

“Only had a wash and a scrape. Marvellous the difference it makes.” He smiled. “I may be wrong, but I'm beginning to hope that I'm not quite such a complete thug after all.”

Ruth studied him for a moment in silence.

“Were you telling Sally the truth?” she demanded. “Can't you remember anything, not even your name?”

He shook his head. “Sounds like a fairy tale, I know; but, all the same, it's an absolute fact.” He frowned. “Look here, let's get this quite straight. I don't blame you in the least for being suspicious: it's only natural. If anyone handed me out a yarn like that I'd feel dead sure he was lying.”

“Well, I thought you might be last night. You see, I know Sally, and I know how generous and impulsive she is. Anybody can impose on her if they make out that they're in trouble.”

“So I should imagine.” Owen nodded. “I'll bet there isn't one girl in a million who'd have been kind and plucky enough to haul me out of that mess and bring me back here. I was so groggy last night I hardly realised what was happening. Now I've had a spot of sleep things are starting to sort themselves out.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Merely that something will have to be done about it. I may have killed Sutton or I may not, but in any case I can't possibly go on hiding in your basement. If I'm really a murderer and the police get on my track—”

“We shall both find ourselves being hauled off to Bow Street.” Ruth shrugged. “Well, I've pointed out that pretty forcibly already, but it doesn't seem to cut any ice with Sally. Perhaps she'll be more disposed to listen to you.”

“She'll have to.”

“We shall see.” With an enigmatic smile Ruth turned towards the staircase. “Come along up, anyhow. It's no use standing around here letting things get cold.”

She motioned Owen to precede her, and leading the way up the staircase, he found himself confronted by a narrow landing with an open door exactly opposite. After the comparative gloom of the lower regions the small, cheerfully lit room, with its cream-coloured walls and neatly laid table, gave him the sudden feeling that he was stepping into a new and enchanting world. The illusion was distinctly heightened by the presence of Sally, who, in a plain green linen frock and with her copper-coloured hair gleaming in the lamplight, looked even more adorably beautiful than when he had last set eyes on her. He had a wild impulse to stride forward and snatch her up in his arms.

“Well,” she observed demurely, “this is our chaste little attic. What do you think of it now you've got here?”

He looked round slowly, taking in all the various details. “Except for the absence of harps,” he replied, “it's exactly my idea of Heaven.”

“We've got a wireless,” remarked Ruth dryly. “I can turn it on if you like.”

“No, you don't,” declared Sally. “I object to being crooned at while I'm eating grapefruit.” She pulled out a chair. “Let's sit down and begin, anyhow. I had no tea and I'm simply ravenous.”

They took their places at the table, and a brief, slightly embarrassing silence descended upon all three of them. It was broken by Ruth, who was watching the other two with what appeared to be a spice of half-malicious amusement.

“Oliver has got something to say to you, darling,” she announced. “He has suddenly gone all noble and thinks he ought to clear out. I feel he's absolutely right, myself, but I told him he had better discuss it with you.”

Sally turned to Owen. “Is this a fact?” she demanded, “or is Ruth just trying to be funny?”

“The nobility part's all bunk,” he replied, “but the rest of it's true enough. I've been thinking it over while I was shaving, and I can see now that it's the only possible way out. Matter of fact, I ought never to have come here.”

“Don't be so stupid,” returned Sally. “You were much too ill to look after yourself. Besides, where else could you have gone at that time of night?”

“I should have stopped where I was until someone rolled up and fetched the police!”

“Nonsense. They would have arrested you right away.”

“Well, if I'm guilty, I'm ready to face up to it. In any case, I'd no right to plant myself on you.”

“But you didn't. I had practically to carry you. My arm's still aching even now.”

“That's not the point,” objected Owen. “By skulking around here I'm putting you two into a fearful jam, and—”

“Now listen to me.” Sally waggled her spoon at him. “I explained it all last night, but I suppose you were too fuddled to take it in. To start with, I don't believe that you killed Sutton. I think somebody banged you on the head and left you there purposely just to give that impression. All the same, you would probably have been arrested for it, and no matter who you are, or what your profession is, being tried for murder isn't exactly the sort of thing that does one any particular good. Even if one gets off, there are always a lot of kind people who run around saying that one ought to have been hanged.”

“But supposing I really
am
a murderer?”

“It wouldn't make the slightest difference.” Sally shook her head. “On the contrary, instead of being merely sorry for you I should be frightfully grateful as well. If ever anyone wanted killing it was that pig Sutton. I'd have done it myself cheerfully if I'd thought I could have got away with it.”